


all these things into position (all these things we'll swallow whole)

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: All the time, Angst, CPOS Victor, Campsite Rule, Coach!Chris, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hug Sex, M/M, Non-Monogamy, Post-Canon, Shame on you as a fandom I had to create the pairing tag, UST, Victor: dumpster-fire in chief, also they cuddle all the time, it's a thing they invented it, sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 15:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: THIS IS A CONSTRUCTION ZONE DON'T READ. I plan to re-write the chapters that I have posted already and finish this for wip bang. i hope.~~It's one of those nights, at one of those banquets. After losing his WR to Minami, Yuri decides to open up to Chris, setting in motion a relationship that neither of them expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm giving up, this has now officially run away on me and is a wip. please enjoy.

“So, you’ve fucked Victor,” Yuri Plisetsky tells him, a flute of champagne half-way up to his lips.

It’s one of Those Banquets, at the stage where the lights are low and almost everyone is drunk. Chris is here as a newly-minted coach whose two charges—Chloe, thirteen, and Andreas, fourteen and a half—ranked eleventh and sixteenth earlier today and are now safely tucked in their rooms, key cards confiscated until 7 AM tomorrow. Yuri is here because he’s technically flawless and skates with an understated masculine dignity—unless, apparently, Minami Kenjirou sets a world record with a perfect five-quad FS right before him. Yuri, worked up, had attempted six. He fell on two and touched down on one—and didn't medal. But he did, for some reason, discover a desire to talk to Chris and ask him about fucking Victor.

“Haven’t you?” Chris answers with a raised eyebrow and all the nonchalance he can master.

Yuri Plisetsky is taller now, leaning against the wall with one leg folded and propped up and a hand in his pocket. “What’s it like?” he says and sips on his champagne, staring in the middle distance.

Chris had come down here in the hopes of finding people who’ll provide entertainment, and so far, Yuri doesn’t disappoint. Neither do the top three buttons of his shirt (undone) and the tailored slacks that stretch around his gorgeous thighs. “We messed around,” Chris shrugs. “We were kids. Plus, by the time I got there, the hair was gone.” Hook, line…

Unconsciously, Yuri fiddles with a couple of strands and lets them fall across his face. Chris grins: _Sinker._ He hadn’t expected this, but hey--his luck could have been worse tonight.

He takes a sip of his champagne. “Why are you asking?”

Yuri knocks back the rest of his drink.

Chris takes the opportunity to stare: pale throat, square jaw. The way his Adam’s apple bobs.

“I thought maybe you would...” Yuri starts nervously, with the kind of bravery one doesn’t get before his fifth flute of champagne. Chris waits. Whatever it is, it will come out. People tell you all kinds of things if you have a reputation for being the sort of person who won’t judge.

A girl passes with a tray. Good: this will need more booze.

Yuri gratefully takes the champagne he’s been handed and tosses back half of that, too. Poor kid, so worked up.

Chris puts a hand around his shoulder and rubs. “Shh, now, there’s no need for this. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, and whatever it is, I promise you I’ve done weirder.”

“Will you act like you’re him,” Yuri says without making eye contact. “Or just tell me about it...”

“...While you lie on my bed and jerk yourself off?” Chris gets into the fantasy like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s a tested approach: he’s had so much excellent sex just because he won’t shame people for their kinks.

Yuri leans back on the wall with his eyes closed, his throat exposed again, and nods. Awww: the fucking eyelashes, man. Pale and thick as they rest on Yuri’s cheeks. Chris moves in closer and puts a strand of hair behind Yuri’s ear. So pretty. He bends his head down, and licks.

“You should dump your coach,” he murmurs playfully. But he means it in all seriousness: Victor hadn't managed to talk Yuri down today, both before stepping on the ice and after. If he had, Yuri would have medaled, and he wouldn't be here getting drunk, proposing questionable scenes to people like Chris. Last but not least: Yuri is hot and Victor won’t fuck him. “Ditch Victor. You’ve already gotten all that you can from him, don’t you think?”

“Why? Are you offering?” Yuri asks. His voice comes out a little raspy.

“Hmm,” Chris says. “On both counts." He didn't realize until it came out of his mouth, but he is. It makes sense: Yuri needs attention and to be someone's top priority. Chris' career needs someone like Yuri. Chris' dick, looks like, needs someone like Yuri, too.

"I'm offering." Chris says. "Would you come up to my room to sample the wares?”


	2. Chapter 2

Chris knows how this would end even before he leads Yuri out of the banquet room, one hand on the small of his back. There’s no other way it _can_ end, really, not when you’re a mess of champagne, unrequited love, need, and defences. But Chris has been around the block a couple of times. He can do snot and tears; snot and tears don’t faze him. It comes with being older: he no longer thinks that he needs to fix everything—or that he even can. All anyone can do in his position is give the Campsite Rule their best try.

The two of them ride up the hotel elevator. Chris has ridden up many an elevator with various hook-ups. The done thing is, you use them for getting an early start on the making out. This isn’t that kind of elevator ride, though: Yuri stands to one side, quiet and tense, his hands folded over his chest, until Chris wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in. They don’t say anything, but Yuri ends up clinging to his side, head on his shoulder.

Chris looks down on the mop of long blond hair and tangles his fingers in it.

The elevator door pings.

He keeps his hand around Yuri’s shoulder as they walk down the corridor.

He needs to decide how does he want to play this.

He slides his key card in, and the reader whirs, the lock disengaging with a click. Yuri tenses under his arm.

“Hey,” Chris says. “Rule one, for these things: nothing has to happen. Nothing has to happen _now;_ whatever happens, I won’t tell a soul; and if you need me to, I’m stellar at pretending that it never happened.”

“Why,” Yuri says, wrinkling his forehead, eyes kind of glazed. Chris reassesses: the kid may be too drunk for this. Start with a talk, then, see where things end.

“Why what?” Chris says as he ushers Yuri in, the door closing behind them.

Yuri stands in the middle of the room, kind of not knowing what to do with himself. Chris indicates the bed with a chin. “Why are you so… nice,” Yuri says as he sits.

 _Because you’re a mess_ , Chris wants to say. “I’m always nice,” he says instead. “Ask around. If you don’t leave dissatisfied customers, they’ll come for repeat business.” He winks. “Plus, you’re hot, and I want to poach you from Victor.”

“Huh? Why.”

“Take your shoes off, kiddo,” Chris says as he removes his own. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Yuri does take the shoes off, but “comfortable” doesn’t seem to parse. “Why do you want to poach me from Victor?” Yuri asks, confused.

Chris takes off his jacket and reaches for Yuri’s as he answers. “Because I think it would work better, both for you and for me.” He starts on his trousers without making a production out of it. “You need a coach who would live and breathe your career, and focus only on you.” Chris says softly. “Someone who will be on your side. Unquestionably. No matter what.”

Chris gives Yuri time. Nothing comes. No, “Victor _is_ that, he _is_ focused and committed to me, he _is_ on my side, how about you get lost.” Maybe Yuri _is_ in fact ready for poaching. Maybe poaching him wouldn’t even be a dick move.

Now for a gamble: “And _I_ ,” Chris says as he sits on the bed and leans against the headboard, “Need to prove to everyone that I know what I’m doing.”

Yuri watches him, silent.

Chris delivers his sales pitch. “If someone on your level chooses to work with me, it will make me or break me as a coach. If people see you underperform, they’ll blame it on me and I’ll be done. But if I can take you from brilliant to stellar—if under my guidance you exceed your previous accomplishments—I’ll be set for life. So. You get a coach with everything on the line who’ll do anything he can. And I get a chance to prove myself. It’s a win-win.”

His cards are on the table. Now he waits.

There’s two ways it can go, being this blatantly self-serving, because there’s two kinds of people.

The kids that have been cared for and know that someone can love them for them—they’re are usually frightened away when they’re confronted with the naked truth of people being out for themselves.

And then there’s the other kids: the ones that know better than to trust anyone who professes to be selfless. Chris takes one look at Yuri—guarded, jaded, and angry, and thinks he knows which kind he is.

Yuri studies him. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“You think you know more than Victor.”

Chris shrugs and counts on his fingers. “I am knowledgeable about the sport. I come from a different school of figure skating, so there’s stuff that I can give you that he can’t. And I can work with the emotional ups and downs of an athlete—by all evidence, better than him.”

Yuri frowns. “Victor...”

“Victor’s coaching has worked on exactly one person so far: Yuuri Katsuki, who’s had a crush on him since he was twelve, and would have been motivated to push himself regardless of what Victor did as long as it was him who did it.”

Yuri lifts an eyebrow. And yeah, when Yuri puts it that way... But still. “You’ve succeeded not _because_ of him, but in spite of him. You’ve hit the limits of what you an learn from him. Plus, there’s only so much one can push oneself when one knows one’s reward is never coming.”

Yuri’s brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed in a thin line. “I came here to fuck, not to talk,” he says, gruff, and makes to get up—except he doesn’t make it very far because Chris clutches his wrist. “I’m a better match for what you need,” he says.

Yuri blinks, like he’s never considered that what he needs may matter. Chris thinks about Yakov and Lilia, stern and domineering, and remembers a long-ago conversation with Victor about how in many ways, Soviet culture still shapes how things are done. Victor’s training had been state-sponsored—so was Yuri’s, in the beginning. On the one hand, you could skate even if your family couldn’t afford it. On the other, your coach was your coach, unless your performance warranted you to be bumped up to a better one. Coach knows best, and you do what you’re told—or you know where the door is: there’s plenty others who would love to take your place. You don’t get to be a special snowflake and shop around for a “best fit,” the way Western athletes often do. Victor had been coached by Yakov his entire life; so had Yuri, until Yakov retired—and after that, it had been Victor.

“Come here and let me show you,” Chris rumbles low in his throat and pulls Yuri until he’s straddling his hips. “Excellent.” He slides his hands up and down Yuri’s thighs, looking at him with open appreciation, until his palms rest on both sides of Yuri’s hips, thumbs rubbing at the fold of his thighs. “Very, very good,” he praises, satisfaction clear in his voice, and watches Yuri blush—he lowers his head to one side, bashful, and the hair spills over one shoulder. Chris rubs his thumbs some more, and the blush spreads down Yuri’s chest. Yuri’s cock starts swelling and Chris licks his lips. It’s absolutely, absolutely delicious. But first things, first.

“Victor fucked up,” Chris says calmly and looks up at Yuri. He moves his hands to Yuri’s waist, because he needs Yuri to listen for this part. “If he hadn’t fucked up, you wouldn’t be here; it’s as simple as that. He may be able to correct your form and give you tips on how to push yourself safely—but then, so can I. So can many other people in the business.” This is not dissing Victor—it’s a fact. “But he doesn’t pay attention when you feel frightened, or threatened, or unsure...” His focus isn’t on you—on what you need to feel calm, and focused, and safe.”

Here’s the snot and tears, just like Cris predicted. Well—just the tears. One tear, really, losing the battle and tumbling down Yuri’s cheek.

Chris pulls Yuri down over his chest and holds him.“Tonight, you needed him.” He continues in the same low, calm voice. “You needed him so much that you were willing to get drunk and ask some random dude you haven’t spoken to in five years to be him for you. But he is off with his husband, and his husband trains Minami.”

“He...” Yuri buries his face in the crook of Chris’ neck and sniffles. He brings one arm up to wipe at his face. “He’s not so bad. He cares, sometimes, and hugs me.”

“...And you shouldn’t have to rely on scraps,” Chris says. “You shouldn’t have to wonder whether today will be a “sometimes” day. You should be certain.”

Yuri sniffles.

“Tell me, Yuri, do you feel certain, deep down, that he’s on your side? When you tell him, ‘I hate that Japanese fucker,’ is he there for you, or does he treat you like a nuisance?”

“I shouldn’t hate Minami,” Yuri says in a small voice.

Chris almost rolls his eyes. As if telling someone they shouldn’t be feeling like they do ever did something. “You don’t hate Minami,” he says. “You hate feeling threatened. And you deal with it by getting angry. A good coach will either use that anger, or they’ll work through it with you so you can re-focus. They wouldn’t roll their eyes at you and tell you to get over yourself.”

Yuri sniffles again, and Chris gives him time, absent-mindedly petting his back and his hair. “And you think you can do that,” Yuri says eventually into his ear. “Use my anger.”

At least he’s not crying anymore. “I think I just did,” Chris says and moves in to kiss him.

It's a sweet kiss: tender and kind of exploratory, of the kind where you dust feather-light nips to their cheeks and their jaw line before sucking lightly on their bottom lip. Chris smiles lightly to himself as he pulls back. He thinks he might just want to keep this. 

“Chris,” Yuri says and nuzzles into his hand.

“Look at you,” Chris whispers and studies his face, the way his lashes fall over his tear-streaked cheeks. “Look at how good you are; how much love you’ve got to give to someone who would pay attention. Do me a fucking favor, kiddo. Even if you don’t end up choosing me, ditch that asshole. You deserve better.”

 

*~*~*

Yuri wakes up, hungover, to a proffered bottle of water that he takes and drinks. Then he notices Chris in the bed next to him, reading glasses on, tinkering with something on a MacBook. “Coffee?” Chris says.

Yuri looks at him, trying to sort out what happened last night. He remembers crying; feeling so much grief and sadness, as if just by talking Chris had pulled out years and years of feeling unloved. Nobody’s done this for him, ever: not Yakov who scolds him, not Victor who ignores him and makes him feel like he’s wrong for feeling how he feels and like he should always, always be working on getting over himself. Not Mila, with her good-natured teasing, or Otabek, who Yuri knew for a fact would always offer him a place to stay or lend him money or

“Thank you,” Yuri says quietly.

“Come here,” Chris says and extends a hand in invitation.

Yuri cuddles at his chest. It’s strange—feeling so small, so protected. He’s always had to be tough all his life; always had to be larger than he is—if all else fails, occupy the space with bluster. Chris is reading the news—the fucking Economist, who the fuck reads the Economist?--and sips absent-mindedly from a cup of black coffee that rests on the nightstand.

“Will you… can I stay around you today? I’m…”

Chris closes his notebook and puts it aside. “Normal,” he says as he turns to Yuri. “You went through a lot last night. Come here, let me cuddle you properly.”

“You meant it, then? All that stuff. Yesterday.”

And Yuri is so fucking cute, the way he sneaks his hands around his body and clings to his chest. Above Yuri’s head, where Yuri can’t see, Chris sets his lips in a line. He’s making this kid his, he thinks fiercely. Even if he has to wait until the end of the season.

He’s taking him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help


	3. Chapter 3

Chris spots Yuri first: silent and slightly grumpy, dragging a leopard print suitcase with grim determination. Yuri doesn’t smile when he spots him back, just makes eye contact and waits for him to catch up. 

Chris hugs him when they’re close enough anyway.

Yuri’s hands uncertainly wrap around his back. Chris sighs and hugs him properly—pressing him all the way to his chest, splaying his palms on his back.

Yuri tentatively lowers his head on his shoulder and murmurs a small, “Hi,” in his ear.

“Hi back,” Chris says and smiles. “I gather you’ve had an absolutely dreadful week?”

“Yeah.”

Chris takes the handle of the suitcase and leads him out with a hand around his shoulders. Hand around the shoulders worked well last time—plus, Chris gets the sense the Yuri is the type who'll snap at you if he doesn’t like something, and Yuri hasn’t snapped yet. 

He is quiet as they get into the car, and curls away from Chris, nose stuck in the car window. When they last saw each other two months ago, Chris made it clear that Yuri could text or call whenever he needed. Yuri didn't, and Chris respected it, but something’s clearly happened, and it doesn’t take much to guess that it  involves Victor.

The ride down the highway is smooth and quiet; Chris chatters softly about anything and everything: the traffic, stuff out the window, his house ("more a log cabin than a house, but it's only twenty-five minutes to the rink in the morning"). Somewhere in the middle of that, Yuri unglues himself from the passenger-seat window and curls around Chris’ arm on the stick shift.

Chris smiles lightly and lets it go for the time being. He keeps talking—this time about the mom-and-pop stores they’ve got in town—the small grocery, the local butcher, the bakery, the coffee shop that becomes a bar at night. The Pakistani guy that sells plastic bins and buckets and piles his merchandise out on the sidewalk every morning. Chris got some flower-pots from him a while ago, and they were quite good—he planted geraniums, but they never bloom the way they do in France and Spain.

“I’ll need this now,” he says as he gently pulls his arm back. “We’re getting into town; I’ll have to use the gear shift more.” He pats Yuri’s leg before he gets his arm back. They swerve between picturesque village houses—there's a boutique, a knitting store, a store with fancy cosmetics—twenty-five minutes down the highway from a major town turns out to be quite a posh place to live. “Do you need anything from the drug store?” Chris says.

Yuri shakes his head. 

  


  


The front door creaks as Chris pushes it in, waving Yuri ahead. There’s a soft thump from somewhere inside the house: a ball of white fluff pads majestically to the door, waving her tail in the air as cautiously sniffs at Yuri's suitcase before rubbing herself all around Chris’ feet. Chris gives her time and smiles. Caution, then clingy affection: he recognizes the pattern even though he hadn't put two and two together.

Yuri takes off his shoes and follows him in, settling on the couch with Marsha the Persian Cat his cell phone while Chris disappears to the kitchen to start up a chicken stir-fry. 

Chris chops peppers and thinks back to when Marsha first came from the shelter: quiet and withdrawn, hissing and swiping, claws out, at anyone who'd approach her; hiding behind the couch yet unable to stop herself from pouncing on Chris' feet when he walked past.

She’d run away when he reached for her and squirm in his hands when he'd try to pick her up. But if you leave to her own devices, sooner or later she’d step daintily in your lap while you’re watching TV and look up with her bright-blue eyes to see what you’ll do next. He'd had to experiment a couple of times  until he'd figured out how she likes to be pet, but once he did, she’d purr and nuzzle into his hand.

Chris chops broccoli and thinks much the same approach may be necessary here.

Cubed chicken breast sizzles as Chris drops it in the pan, the sound muffled as soon as other vegetables follow.

He returns to the living room with two big bowls of stir-fry, a fork sticking out of each. It’s unpretentious, but it’s what Chris has; it’s his go-to staple. Yuri looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor cross-legged, with Marsha the cat in his lap.

Yuri looks up. “I used to have a ragdoll,” he says as he strokes her. “Potya. My grandpa named her. She used to stay with him while I was away training, or at competition.”

Chris sits on the couch and hands him a bowl.

“I had her since I was small. Somehow I thought she’d always be there.” Yuri digs in. Marsha raises her head up and sniffles the air as he chews on a piece of chicken. “I thought my grandpa would always be there, too.”

Yuri puts aside his bowl and goes back to petting Marsha. Chris watches. This, probably, is his test. You said that you’ll go there with me, wherever that is—so will you?

“Do you have any pictures?” Chris says, and he hopes he passes.

 

 

Chloe and Andreas are _not_ happy to be called to practice this early, but they’re here even though they can’t seem to stop yawning and giving him the stink-eye. He sits them side-by-side on the bleachers.

“What do you see?” he says in his coach voice.

Andreas makes a “what on earth is this geriatric about” face until he looks around and his eyes widen. “It’s Yuri Plisetsky!” he says with no small amount of awe.

“Indeed. And what is he doing while the two of you complain that I’ve called you in too early?”

“Quad salchow,” Chloe whines just as Chris hears the distinctive sound of skates digging into the ice. He can tell it was a smooth landing without even watching. You start to be able to, after a while.

“And what can we learn from this?”

Both his charges look at their shoes like he’s their math teacher and he’s asking after their homework.

“Is it starting to sink in how much hard work is required? How much determination?”

Chloe and Andreas both nod. Good.

Only a third of the actual reason why Yuri is here so early has anything to do with discipline and drive; the other two-thirds apparently are that when Yuri is worked up about something, he gets fidgety and nervy and he gets on the ice to skate it out. But then, his juniors don’t really need to know that.

“He’ll be training at our rink this season,” Chris says. “This is a rare opportunity for you to learn, so be here to observe whenever you are able to. Learn his schedule, and adjust yours. I won’t make you, but it would be stupid if you don’t. I don’t need to tell you how few junior skaters have access to a resource like this.”

Two nods, again. If he’d known this would be what it takes for them to finally get serious, he’d have done it long ago.

“You will stay out of his way, and you will be respectful at all times. This is non-negotable.”

“Of course,” Chloe says and looks up. Chris can already tell she’ll be here tomorrow morning even though as a guy Andreas could probably benefit more.

“Will Victor Nikiforov be coming, too, Coach Giacometti?” Andreas asks, a little star-struck.

“No. From now on Yuri will work with me.”

They both blink.

“Wow,” Chloe says.

Chris dismisses them to get changed and get breakfast.

  


Once they leave, Yuri skates over. “How are you finding it?” Chris says.

“Okay,” Yuri shrugs and grabs onto the railing. He’s got circles under his eyes, which is no surprise at all given he’s freshly jet-lagged and he spent last night cuddling on the couch with Chris and showing him endless pictures of his cat. 

They only went through one folder: discolored scans of actual paper photos of tiny Yuri trying to pick up a ragdoll half his size, cuddling her, putting food in her bowl with an intense focus that clearly befits the seriousness and responsibility of his task.

It had been a good idea, asking to see the pictures. Little Yuri was adorable, but even more importantly, the pictures meant that Chris could ask questions so Yuri could open up and talk. Hopefully, Yuri feels a little safer sharing now, and a little more known—and hopefully, it’s helped him grieve.

The part where Yuri’d nodded off on Chris’ shoulder and had let himself get sleepily undressed and installed into Chris’ bed hadn’t been bad either.

“How I'm finding it?" Yuri sasses. "Aren’t you the great coach? Shouldn’t _you_ tell me?” And it's expected, really, that Chris would find his authority tested.

“I am a great coach,” he responds calmly. “But you’re not in juniors any more. You’re a skilled professional who has both the knowledge and the experience to be the best authority on himself.”

Yuri stares at him.

Chris stares back. “It may not be how you do it in Russia, but it's how we'll do it here. I won’t be telling you what to do. Your own brain needs to be working, analyzing, assessing—first and foremost, you should strive to self-correct." Their eyes are on a level across the wall of the rink. "You should aim to start seeing the link between your technical strengths and the type of choreography that will work best for you. It'll prepare you to be a coach in your own right, one day," Chris finishes softly.

Yuri keeps looking at him—Chris can't tell if giving him this much freedom is empowering or making him uncertain, but tough beans: this isn't Russia. Things aren't easy here; they're just differently tough.

“So,” Chris says. “What thoughts do you have that you’d like to bounce off of me?”

“I want that fucking record back,” Yuri says, fierce.

  
  


“We should announce this on social media,” Chris says after he’s shooed Chloe and Andreas out. “Strike a pose and give me your phone, let me take a picture.”

Yuri wrinkles his nose. “Like this? I’m still all sweaty and my hair’s messy from practice.”

He _is_. And he’s also wearing his signature plain black tights and polo shirt. So, as far as Chris is concerned, yes—exactly like this.

“Lean forward against the railing…” He directs. “A little more…”

Chris skates out slightly behind him and to the side to get the best shot of Yuri’s butt and the curve of his back.

Yuri raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not subtle at all.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.” Chris winks, making Yuri give him a small smile as he looks at him over his shoulder. It’s a tad shy, almost private… Perfect.

Chris snaps the picture and hands the phone over. “Caption it, ‘Preparing for a new WR with @ChrisGiacometti in Lausanne.’ And don’t tag any of your sportswear. If I’m right, endorsement offers should start pouring in before the end of the week.”

  
  


“I need your bigger goals,” Chris muses once they’ve both had dinner and Yuri is sitting on the floor between his legs with Marsha the Traitor in his lap. Chris is rubbing his neck and shoulders, not even trying to pretend it's not half-massage and half-excuse to stroke Yuri's bare neck. “I need to know what you want to accomplish so I can make sure pushing right now doesn’t compromise what you want to achieve overall-” His thumbs dig in and Yuri's head drops forward. "Also, I need you to figure out what you want to do after you retire so I can make sure I'm preparing you adequately-"

“And I need you to fuck me.” Yuri interrupts, melting into the hands that slide over his shoulders. “We’ve been dancing around this shit since that night after Worlds... I upended my entire fucking life to come here—”

Chris rather suspected Yuri had. “I’ll talk to Victor for you,” Chris says and digs his thumbs in. “He may be pissed now, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll see that coaching someone who’s in love with you when you’re fucking _married_ to the coach of his greatest rival is not exactly the smartest idea—”

“Chris, seriously!”

Kid's embarrassed. Oh, well. “—At the very least, if I talk to him he’ll take it out on me not on you...” Because there's this: Yuri’s cat is dead, Yuri’s grandpa is dead, and Victor is, for all intents and purposes, the only family Yuri has left—even though _complicated_ doesn’t even begin to describe that mess. The Victor thing needs addressed, and Chris is definitely doing something about it—

“Oh. My. God!" Yuri throws his hands up. "It’s been two months, during which we’ve hung out for less than a week in total, and you keep saying you’ll fuck me and all I get are these weird psychological conversations—gah!” 

Marsha rearranges herself on his legs, displeased. 

Amusing. But also, Chris is an idiot. He hadn’t thought that after years and years of Victor not fucking him, Yuri would appreciate someone who _would._ Suddenly, Chris is glad it’s him and not some idiot who’d seduce Yuri for his glorious ass but not care. But yes, Okay, sex. “No more talking, then, hm?” Chris smiles and keeps rubbing.

“Don’t you fucking dare-” Yuri strops.

Chris bends forward until his mouth is at Yuri’s ear. “Tell me what you want, then,” he says low in his throat. “How I should fuck you."

“Like you hug me,” Yuri mumbles and nuzzles his thigh.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They’re a month into it: getting up first thing in the morning, tumbling out of bed and to the rink, where it’s warm-ups and stretches and a printed training plan for each of Chris’ three charges. At night, Chris cooks and they cuddle on the couch, the TV humming quietly while Chris tinkers with these same training plans, adjusting them to reflect the results of the days’ practice.

Yuri laughs at his pretentious square glasses and steadily works on winning Marsha away from her rightful owner. Every now and then, Chris would look at them from the couch: Yuri in a split on his yoga mat on the floor, Marsha rubbing the side of her head against her fingers as he scratches her.

About two weeks in, Chris realizes that Yuri doesn’t understand a word of French but keeps the TV on the French channels anyway, so he orders an audio course online. Yuri receives it from him with a lifted eyebrow, and since then, Yuri-and-Marsha-on-the-mat turns into Yuri on the mat with headphones, forehead furrowing and eyes gazing vacantly to one side as he tries to memorize whatever he hears.

It’s interesting, Chris thinks, how Yuri listens to the course lectures reliably and on schedule, but for some reason, doesn’t try to speak. Sometimes, his lips move wordlessly as he moves through his stretches, sometimes they don’t, but he’s still quiet in the grocery store and hasn’t asked Chris for practice. There is something there, Chris thinks, as a person whose job for the last five years was watching others learn. Whether it’s a perfectionism thing and Yuri won't put himself on the spot until he’s close to fluent, or a “this reminds me of school and school sucked” thing, he doesn’t know.

One day, he’ll ask and find out.

Yuri has taken over cleaning up after Chris cooks, so after he finishes his stretches he usually spends twenty minutes in the kitchen. Chris gets his Marsha time for the day until Yuri cuddles up to him to make out before going to bed.

So far, they’re sticking to “hug sex,” as Chris has taken to calling it in his head. They cling to each other, legs intertwined, with Chris’ hand reaching down to work at both their dicks. Or Chris spoons Yuri from behind, mouth at the crook of his shoulder, and ruts between his butt-cheeks. Or—like their first time— Chris lies on his back and holds Yuri tightly to his chest, murmuring, “You just go and take what you need, kiddo,” as Yuri thrusts into him shallowly and keens into his chest.

Chris takes it more often than not. Yuri’s got quads to land the morning after.

It’s spectacularly tame compared to what Chris is used to, but he feels he likes it nonetheless. There’s something about the constancy, the closeness, the freedom of not having to do any particular work. He tilts his head to the side, one night on the couch, as he realizes that for the first time in a long long while, he just _is_ in bed. He’s not performing.

He tilts his head to the other side and wonders if he’ll eventually miss it. Chris is very, very good at performing.

Yuri's head shifts where it rests in his lap, and Chris goes back to his spreadsheets. It's possible that he will miss it. But he doesn’t miss it yet.

 

 tbc

 

**Author's Note:**

> whelp


End file.
